


The Infidelity Game

by 100dabbo



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Feminization, Infidelity, Light Angst, Lingerie, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100dabbo/pseuds/100dabbo
Summary: Robert Fischer's new personal assistant accompanies him to a business trip to Italy, leaving his husband behind.
Relationships: Eames/Robert Fischer, Robert Fischer/Luca Changretta
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	The Infidelity Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AbusiveLittleBun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbusiveLittleBun/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to my partner in horny crime, Ishtar ♥ I love you the most, I hope you like this one, you've been waiting for me to finish it for a while hahahaaa

“Hello, Mr Fischer, my name’s Eames.”

The man stood opposite Robert’s desk extended his hand as he said it, the watch on his wrist shining as it entered the sharp ray of sun pouring through the window behind the chair his new boss was sat in. It took all of ten seconds before Robert leaned forth to take it, sliding forward on the chair to meet their hands, shaking it firmly to feel its size and weight with their first brief and introductory hold. 

He promptly lay it flat on the leather armrest once the shake was released, and with his other hand, he tapped the ring that encircled his fourth finger against the varnished edge of the mahogany desk, making his reply,

“So, he really did hire you, huh?”

His eyes strayed away from Eames’ gaze, simply nodding once with a curt dip of his chin to allow him the seat he was so clearly desperate to sit in. The look he floated over the bookcase adjacent to Eames’ place drifted in a feigned glance of distraction, ignoring his new employee as he drew back the chair and reclined casually, resting his interlaced hands over his abdomen.

“Was there any doubt he wouldn’t?”

“Yes.” Robert re-joined, using all the assertion his tone could possibly muster, “Yes, there was, because contrary to what he might have told you,” His eyes fixed themselves back into Eames’ humoured gaze, letting him see the skin crease by his eyes alongside his grin, “I am a far more together person than my father might have you believe.”

Eames hadn’t stated his occupation to Robert because he knew the man had been expecting his arrival for the past few days. His entrance into his office wasn’t a surprise at all. Maurice had been promising the hire of a personal assistant persistently, and eventually, the threat had become so obstinate, its eventuality was anticipated - even if it was resented. 

But this attitude of Robert’s father to be controlling over his business life had only just been born due to the events of just a few months prior.

Six months before Eames’ meeting in Robert’s office, Fischer had gotten married, and as a result, had grown increasingly distant from Maurice’s authority, replacing it with another man’s. The bi-product of such a transition came a gradual distractedness from his work, and the marriage did, in fact, prove itself to be counter intuitive to its purpose, and that was, among other things, the issue Fischer Sr. had with his son.

Mr Changretta, a wealthy businessmen in his own right, had not only a business proposal to increase his share and stake in Fischer Morrow, but one of marriage for Fischer Sr.’s son, who had been so dedicated to his father’s company that he accepted in the hope of seeking his approval. Thoughts and deliberation stewed for some time on his blessing, and through his eyes of a CEO to one of the world’s biggest energy conglomerates, he could hardly refuse, even if it did label his son in the public eye as a homosexual.

The sacrifice Robert had made to deign marriage with a Changretta was absolved on the very night of their wedding, never mind their honeymoon.

“Are you a virgin?” His groom asked him in the solitude of their room, approaching with a slow, methodical gait, backing the both of them towards the mattress that awaited their conjugal union.

Robert laughed in his face, not bothering to dignify it with either a lie or the truth, retaining his grin as the man’s next question came through,

“What’s your body count, huh?” His dark eyes gave him a once over, the habitual examination of his frame and the fine clothes he bore over it for the wedding, their glint of carnal light always shining in his direction. When they snapped up, bearing his authority, Fischer could only blink, his smile diminishing to a subtle smirk. He shrugged. 

Changretta’s hands laid themselves on his shoulders, shoving him down onto the bed, body looming above him. “I don’t care if your father has sold a slut to me. I care whether or not you can forget about every other cock you’ve ever had the misfortune of sucking, fucking, or looking at.” He loosened the black tie from around his neck, pulling once on the knot in a sharp tug sideways to take it off and slip the loop around Robert’s slender wrists.

“You’re mine now, and I’m the only man who’s ever gonna pleasure you enough to tame that _whorish_ disposition of yours.” The words were spat with emphatic disdain. He tightened the tie to bind his hands together.

Robert straightened his expression, nodded, and spread his legs.

A type of love was quick to blossom between them after that, alongside which had sprouted a distractedness, affecting his duties and responsibilities the most out of anything.

So, the man who had been sent to fix that was sat right there, opposite the committed heir of Fischer Morrow - a personal assistant trained to occupy his organisation while his mind could drift over the constant thoughts of his beloved. 

But just because he had been hired, it didn’t mean Robert was going to accept without reluctance or distaste.

To have a man following at his tail each and every day might have seemed desirable a year ago, but as a newly married man, the thought repelled and embarrassed him in every sense of the words, reminding him that he was still treated like an irresponsible child who needed supervision.

One week into this man’s work and Robert could sus out that the man could hardly spell, hardly add up, and hardly stand beside him in silence without the irritating urge to quip a joke. At the same time, however, he did prove himself dependable, punctual, and most importantly organised. Never late, never mistaken, and never as judgemental as the previous assistants Robert had hired in the past.

As he would trail Robert’s determined gait around the office and the city and his home, there would remain a mutual respect between them; the kind of sentiment Robert could scarcely make with anyone, even in his adult life.

Changretta would greet him with deep kisses and words of adoration to fuel his vanity, press his lips to the ring on his finger to remind him of who owned him, plough him into their marriage bed with ruthless pleasure to make him see blissful stars. Yet, the question remained: would he care as deeply as to ensure Robert’s life was comfortable and at ease, that he was secure and happy in his job, satisfied with his direction?

No. Because that was the assistant’s job.

That job, a month later after his original hiring, would demonstrate a slip on one occasion, and that was the trigger to change their dynamic far beyond an employer and his employee.

Robert’s suits and ties and shoes, along with everything else that he might have needed, were packed in advance and fitted into suitcases and trunks for his weekend visit to their office in Milan. Profuse apologies from his husband were lamented to his reasons for not joining him: “Bobby, you know I would love to,” was followed by, “It’s your father that wants me to stay here,” before he finished with, “You’ll bring me back something, won’t you?”

He didn’t know enough about Luca to bring something back what he’d liked. He didn’t dare to ask lest it revealed that truth. Still, his absence was enough to ensure Robert’s preconception of an awful visit; the thought of occupying a beautiful king sized bed in a luxury Italian hotel with no one to fuck him senseless into it was… disheartening to find out to say the least. 

Yet in the company of Eames, he knew that it was to be just a little bit bearable.

That was until check-in.

In an uncharacteristic lack of attention, in a subtle slip of awareness, Eames had only booked one hotel room under the name ‘Fischer’.

“Check the name ‘Eames’ too,” He told the receptionist as he flicked through his pocket planner with the pad of his index finger, “I must have made two, and if not, you must have—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we have been booked fully tonight,” She cut in, “And there are no spare reservations until tomorrow.”

He didn’t even have to turn around to see Fischer’s frustration at the situation; he could sense it from just a few metres behind him.

“Well, the bags have already been taken up, the room’s mine.” He stated, claiming the room in a pre-emptive statement, as if he’d ever be the one cheated of a bed for the night.

“That’s alright, Mr Fischer,” Eames smirked back at him, keeping his light-hearted charisma, as ever, “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

“I can call the other places nearby and see if we can find a booking for you,” Was the receptionist’s suggestion, Robert quick to accept as he placed his pair of sunglasses over his eyes despite it being hours past sundown. He slipped a hand into his pocket too, saying,

“Call the room if you find anything.”

And he led the two of them towards the elevator, stepping in to brace his hands on the railing, leaning against the wall to recline somewhat and relieve a deep sigh as if it’d been pent up. Whether it was impatience or fatigue, Eames couldn’t tell. He opted to damage control, nonetheless.

“It’s my lack of foresight, Mr Fischer, I apologise.”

There was a silence, one which Eames again could not decipher the reason for, with Robert’s eyes behind those dark tinted shades obscuring his emotion. His mouth was still visible however, and displaced itself from its straight, unamused line to open with reply,

“There’ll be a couch in the room, right? I’ll take the bed and you—”

“Mr Fischer, I—”

The glasses were whipped off the second he was interrupted, letting his blue eyes look back at Eames with a cool glare of disinterest.

“You’re my _personal_ assistant. You’re not going to another hotel, Eames.”

Perhaps a level of niceness could be detected in his tone, yet with the words he spoke, holding an almost commanding nature, Eames took the sliver of sentiment as a mere offer of amicability, agreeing with his decision.

“Of course, Mr Fischer.”

The shades were replaced for the duration of the elevator ride, and as the metal doors pulled open again, he stepped out with Eames behind to find the single room booked under his own name. Eames brandished the key card and swiped it by the lock to allow for his entry, watching him stride inside. He noted the pile of trunks and suitcases stacked beside the bed and was quick to lay out instruction,

“Pack it away for me while I take a shower, would you?”

The question made it more of a request, but Eames could hardly say no without legitimate reason. He set his own duffel beside the desk, subtly watching in his peripheral as Robert shirked the blazer from his torso and flung it over the back of a sofa, the one Eames would be sleeping on. The suspenders over his shoulders were the next to be alleviated, and that was all Eames could see before the man stepped into the en-suite and started running the shower. 

His hand landed on the first trunk, the only one he could be certain of what was inside. The two of them had been on many business trips together in the short few months of being colleagues, and in that time, in his duty, he’d learned to know what kind of things Fischer would wear, and what kind of things he’d bring with him.

So, for possibly the tenth time in his role of personal assistant, he opened up the smallest of the three cases, his fingertips brushing against the luxury insignias printed into the leather coverings, thumb pushing up the golden clasp to tip back the lid and reveal Robert’s collection of undergarments. Of course, it wasn’t his whole collection, one suitcase couldn’t do enough to hold that much, though it was a sizeable portion, one perhaps over compensating for the three days he was to be away from home, but it was always characteristic of him to provide more than was truly necessary.

As always, the slight twinge of arousal couldn’t help but ghost inside Eames’ loins, though being ever professional, tried push it into the back of his mind. He picked up the case to bring it to the dresser, occupying his mind with irrelevant thoughts as each stocking pair, and panties and garters were put into place for the next morning when, under his crisp suit for the first business meeting of his time schedule, he could pull them over - what Eames could only picture as - his little prick. 

It seemed in truth, he couldn’t actually push it to the back of his mind. Well, with his fingers brushing against the same intimate silk of what Robert’s father would brand his ‘perverse raiment’, it was difficult not to. To think that beneath his business wear and façade of seriousness, he was just as lewd in the bedroom, and indeed anywhere he went, as a whore. The frilling lace and smooth silken accents with the accompanying thigh high stockings made it clear he was a man of luxury, being so under every connotation of the word, and yet Eames didn’t doubt for a second that he’d turn into a two-penny whore under the sheets.

He saw the way Luca would address him and touch him in the seclusion away from Maurice’s watchful eye, and in perfect solitude, that could only be amplified. _Their_ perfect solitude.

His hands let go of the underwear, pushing the drawer closed slowly and soundlessly, and just as he stood up to put the rest away, Fischer stepped from the en-suite, wet hair being scrunched in a towel, his body just covered by his robe, exposing that smooth chest of his. He immediately went for his phone, not really acknowledging how Eames had stopped packing away his things, and flopped his back against the mattress, holding it above his face as he started texting.

Eames turned back to his task when he realised that he wasn’t about to be re-instructed to something else, but couldn’t help but pause when Robert sighed, too loudly to not be for attention, too deep to be from the lethargy of travel.

“Everything alright?” He asked, fitting the crisp shirts into the upper drawer, not knowing whether Robert would even deign to answer and spill his feelings to him.

There was a silence, Eames assuming it to be the other man contemplating whether or not to, then his answer came in the form of avoidance.

“I’m ordering room service. Do you want anything?”

“No, no, that’s alright.” Came Eames’ laconic reply, turning his head to watch him sprawl out across the bed, picking up the bedside phone and leafing through the menu. 

“This is all bullshit, as if I’d want to eat any of it at 9pm.” He complained, chucking the pamphlet to the side, “Any suggestions?”

“Stick to champagne, can’t go wrong.” Eames suggested, smirking to himself as if Fischer would ever do that, but then he heard the phone dial and Robert shift and re-position on the bed, holding it up to his ear.

“Just a bottle of Cristal. No, just bring ice and two glasses. Grazie.”

The phone was placed back into the dock and Robert gave out another one of his sighs, checking his phone again one last time, only to groan and toss it to the other side of the mattress.

“Mr Fischer, I know something’s off.” Eames turned from the draws and approached the bed, looking down on the man whose eyes were closed with frustration.

“He said he’d call.”

“Are you talking about Mr Changretta?”

“ _Of course_ I’m talking about Luca, who the fuck else?!”

His anger would have seemed cute if it didn’t inconvenience Eames so much, feeling obliged to calm him down despite it not truly being his responsibility. Cautiously, he sat himself on the edge of the bed, looking out to the balcony while Robert remained much the same; irritated and seething.

“Do you want to tell me why?”

Robert lifted his head, the damp hair that had been clinging to his forehead now flopping thin strings over his eyes. The piercing blue still cut through, and his distempered expression was all too visibly upset. At least he hadn’t started crying.

He inhaled, steadying his breath for what Eames assumed would be an explanation, but then there was a knock at the door, and he stood up to open it for the waiter, tightening his robe even more at the waist with the cinch of the belt.

Hearing them speak a little Italian that he could barely decipher, Eames turned around to see the waiter who was welcomed in to set down the drink. The man said a word akin to ‘anniversary’, a cognate Eames wasn’t oblivious to, and Robert barely even reacted. He was an attention seeker in a lot of ways, so it wasn’t surprising to see him deceive the most menial of people just to receive their interest for a second.

The second the waiter left he was starting to pour his own glass, setting the bottle that was dripping with ice and water on the varnished desk. It’d damage the wood, but who was he to give a shit? All Eames wanted to know was _why_ he wasn’t giving a shit. He was about to ask again as he made a reach for his own glass, but then it became clear the second Robert decided to toast.

He raised up his arm, the sleeve of his robe slipping down to his elbow for as long as he kept it up, and said,

“To loving husbands.”

His tone most certainly didn’t match the sentiment, and when Eames toasted along with him with a half full glass of Cristal, he didn’t repeat the phrase, nor did he wish to bring it up further and cause more distress. 

The rest of Robert’s glass was knocked back quickly for another, perching himself on the edge of his bed, one leg crossed over the other and a hand behind him to support his weight. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell his _personal_ assistant the very _personal_ things in his life, but he somehow felt like he couldn’t.

It wasn’t like there was an NDA on his marriage, as if there was some kind of charge he’d been given not to tell anyone anything; only it felt like there was something sacred between himself and Luca, something that meant no-one else could get involved in their affairs because they only needed each other to talk to. 

He swilled the alcohol in the glass flute and looked up to his assistant, the man who’d been looking away for the past few minutes to save him from the discomfort of the room’s atmosphere. It shouldn’t have even been happening, Eames should have been in a different room entirely, not right in front of him to be the voyeur of his upset. But he was. So, he spoke.

“Eames,” He said, “What should I do?”

“About what?”

Robert only stared; they’d been over this.

“About him.”

“You’re gonna have to tell me a bit more, Robert,” He never called him Robert, ever, “Are you happy?”

“Yes.” Came the short and fast reply. A little too short and fast. A little too performative and obvious of an answer. Eames sat beside him.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d be lost without him,” Fischer explained, getting up for another re-fill despite his flute not being entirely empty, “If I’m being honest with you, Eames, he—” He cut himself off to pour it out, “He satisfies me like no man has before.”

Eames swallowed and bit the inside of his cheek.

“Right.”

“And besides that, I’m rich, people like me, I’ve got a great home, and for the first time in my life my father is taking me seriously and is at least _pretending_ to give a shit about me.”

“Of course.”

Each laconic reply pissed Robert off all the more. His father might have employed him, but he was in his service, and he wanted that service a very certain way. He didn’t just want a blind loyalty to anything and everything he said, he wanted some disparity in their opinion because that’s what people are like. The resentment for such unnecessary fealty was higher than it ought to have been, but he still couldn’t say anything.

“Yeah.”

He took down the rest of the champagne, setting the empty glass on the desk.

“I’m going to bed.” He said, walking to the dressers where half of his clothes had been stowed away. When he opened up the bottom, sliding it out to gaze at what contents Eames had chosen to put in there, he couldn’t help but smirk a little, taking out a single pair of frilled underwear that he slipped up his legs, uncaring for whether Eames was looking or not.

He flicked the switch on the wall, replacing the brightness of the main light with the golden glow of the bedside lamps, and rounded the bed slip into the left side, removing his robe once his body was covered by the sheets. Eames was both looking and walking away from the bed as he did it, finding a quilt in the wardrobe for his stay on the couch, but then Robert piped up with a suggestion, “You can sleep in the bed if you want.” Their eyes made contact, “Sorry if I was being cold earlier.”

“Not at all.” He reassured him, unbuttoning his shirt and resting over the top, letting the duvet be their divider.

“It’s almost good that you’re in here,” Robert said, watching him as his shirt was taken off his back, “I hate sleeping alone,” Next to follow was his belt, his back muscles flexing as he unbuckled it, “When Luca’s not with me I can’t bear it,” The trousers followed swiftly, but like himself, the underwear remained, “So maybe it’s not so terrible after all.”

“I’m sure he must feel the same way, right?” Eames started settling himself into his section of the bed, tossing away the stiff decorative pillows placed there for display, “He probably hated that he couldn’t come.”

“Yeah, yeah, the earring I found in his suit jacket and the trips to New York every other weekend certainly attest to that.” He was sounding bitter again, but Eames supposed he had the right to if he was suspicious about his husband’s fidelity. “And before you ask, no, it wasn’t one of mine.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Fischer turned around to look at him, desperate for him not to turn off the lights, letting them stay in one another’s company, awake, and seize this opportunity their may never have again. He moved closer to him, his smooth skin slipping between the luxury sheets until they were practically right next to each other, only a duvet to part them from touch.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Robert asked, alluding to his position above the sheets rather than beneath them.

“Not when I’m around you.” Was the countering statement, said with so much conviction that Robert couldn’t consider it to be a lie in any respect. He took out his hand and placed it on Eames’ chest, hairy and warm, and drifted it over the skin. He wasn’t met with any resistance. 

It only took a few more seconds before they were kissing, moving closer towards one another, kicking off the sheets to finally make the contact they were both yearning for. Robert landed on top of him, straddling his hips with his thighs, pushing down on him whilst also grasping for him to be closer, one hand on the back of his neck, the other embedded tightly in his hair, tugging gently.

He moaned against Eames’ lips until they both couldn’t take just kissing, the other man’s hands roaming down from Robert’s back to the band of his underwear, firmly clutching to start inching them down.

“Fuck.” Robert couldn’t help breathing into his mouth, kneeling up to get them off again, “Fuck me, Eames.” 

Eames said nothing, only working to fulfil his newest command as he stripped them off of him, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of his curve, inching towards his hole. “Carry-on case.” Robert told him, slipping off of him to root through the bag and procure the small bottle of lubricant he’d taken the precaution of taking with him.

He was back on Eames lap in no time, passing it to him to give him to pleasure of opening him up himself. His fingers were slicking up and resuming their position, and eventually slipping inside of him to the second knuckle, feeling the clench around them while Robert adjusted to the sensation.

“Does that feel good?” Eames whispered, the deep timbre of his voice sending a shiver up Fischer’s spine along with a shot of arousal when they pushed deeper, finding his sweet-spot and pressing, “Do you like that?”

“Yes! Please! More!” Were the only three words he could muster up for a reply, rocking himself back onto the digits, imagining the girth of what Eames’ cock would be once they replaced the fingers. 

He didn’t care if it was going to be slightly shorter or thicker than Luca’s, because he just wanted anything _but_ Luca’s; something so different and scandalously pleasurable that he could get the same unfaithful label as his husband had, get back at him using Eames, keep it just as secret as he had.

The fingers were taken out when Eames saw that Fischer was rock hard and yearning, his bitten bottom lip the tell of his desperation, and he took his cock out from his boxer, slicking it up and pressing its head onto his rim.

“Look at me Robert,” Eames said, waiting for him to open up his eyes, to look at him in honesty, “Do you want this?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Do you want me?”

“Yes!”

“Show me.”

That made Fischer smirk, and, resting his hands-on Eames’ broad shoulders, leant back, sinking himself down on his cock with no less struggle as it would take him to breathe. He moaned as he bottomed out, whimpering while it grazed his prostate, and pinched Eames’ skin with his forefinger and thumb.

“Fuck, Daddy, _ah!_ ”

Eames couldn’t say he was surprised to hear that. 

He bucked up with a sharp snap of his hips, bouncing Fischer on his lips like he weighed nothing, holding firmly to his hips to keep him from moving. His eyes were closed again, deep in concentration to save himself from the wave of climax crashing into him too soon.

Regardless, Eames still seeked to aid him on the path to finishing anyway, taking his right hand from his hip and wrapping it around his neglected cock, receiving a light shudder and twitch in response to the contact, a thrust upwards to chase the stimulation. No hesitation was had before he started pumping his fist up and down, even when Robert squealed and shook his head, his left-hand landing on Eames’ face, stroking against the light stubble.

“Good boy, Robert, keep going.” He praised him, seeing how that was all it took for him to blink open those heavy, lust blown eyes and trace his fingers over Eames’ lips, slipping them onto his tongue.

His wedding ring glinted in the soft light, and even as Eames’ eyes caught sight of the diamonds and gold in his peripheral, he only thrusted up harder, harder than he even dreamed he would, than the fantasies he’d had of Robert on top of him just like this, just as he imagined in all his perfection.

The slender fingers continued slipping across his tongue, venturing while Eames groaned against them, teeth grating the skin, clinking against the band of the ring.

“Am I your whore, Daddy? Am I your dirty whore?” 

He prompted Eames to confirm it with each of his slow, circular grinds on his dick, moaning intermittently while the other man nodded at him, mouth too full to reply with words. But it was words that Robert truly wanted.

The fingers were retracted, letting him hold his hand against his face again, coated with saliva, open eyes urging him to repeat it. Eames’ fist made itself nice and tight as he did so.

“You’re my dirty little whore, Bobby, come for Daddy.”

It was practically pulled out of him the way Eames’ incessant hand continued beating up and down, and when he spilled, it was with a ruckus, panting out the honorific five times over, moaning those sweet, delectable noises that made Eames’ cock throb inside of him. 

The clench was what tipped him over along with him, the tight, wet heat of him letting him finish inside, a firm hold still planted on his hip to keep him put while he was emptied.

They went to sleep not long after, wrapped up in one another’s arms under the same cover of the bed, Robert’s face burying itself in Eames’ neck, his hand resting on his chest, shining with the glittering jewels his husband had given him.

They returned home a few days later, not having discussed their affair since it happened. They were particularly silent with one another as Robert’s reunion with Luca approached, expecting him to be the first they’d see when they walked though the door, greeting them back from the trip.

As expected, Changretta was stood in the foyer, outstretching his arms to welcome an embrace, that sharp toothpick placed on his bottom lip, his smirk laced with that eternal smugness he always endeavoured to bear.

Eames clutched to his bags while he watched them reunite, the two of them being just as loving as the way they had when they parted, not trace of the bitter attitudes Robert had reported in their shared hotel room. 

The pick was removed from Changretta’s mouth and they kissed, holding their hands together, the wedding rings clinking ever so subtly, as if either of them upheld their promises of marriage at all.

When they separated and Robert turned around, looking back at Eames beside his suitcases and trunks, his face lacked each and every sentiment he’d had prior, those of distaste and irritancy and anger, but for second, when their eyes made contact and Eames smirked, just to be nice, the glimmer in those blue irises couldn’t be helped for expressing that little hint of regret. 

But then, he just picked up his carry-on, turned around, and didn’t look back as he walked with his husband upstairs to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos are appreciated :) Check me out on [Tumblr](https://100dabbo.tumblr.com/)!


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